


Myriad

by Secrets_at_Midnight



Series: But Men are Men [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: F/M, Fernand-centric, I love Fernand and his character, and how complicated he is, and thus begins my OC works, but not the focus, focusing on him and his feelings, mentions of Berkut and those in the Deliverance, rating is just to be safe, references to murder and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secrets_at_Midnight/pseuds/Secrets_at_Midnight
Summary: She was a fiery heart and a wicked brain, refusing to be tied down by any standards.And yet, she was also a lady.(Takes place during Echoes.)





	Myriad

Temptation.

A noun.

“A strong urge or desire to have or do something.  
Something that causes a strong urge or desire to have or do something and especially something that is bad, wrong, or unwise.”

_Temp-ta-tion_... it rolled so nicely off the tongue, sounding scandalous and highbrow and like it ought to be incorporated into every sentence. Like it was a fine wine that had been aged to perfection and made from the finest of Zofian grapes.

Allurement. Enticement. Turn-on. Lure. Bait. Seduction.

She was certainly all that and more that a man could want. She was a fiery heart and a wicked brain, refusing to be tied down by any standards. And yet, she was also a lady. A terribly unorthodox sort, all things considered, but Mathilda had been too — the type to reject what is expected of one, and yet still be so gloriously _feminine_ , in some indescribable way. It was a sort of class and charm and pride in her bearing, perhaps due to her noble facial features. So, a lady, nonetheless.

There’s a part of him — one of so many different parts since the loss of his family — that despises her. There’s a part of him that resents the family that she still has waiting for her at her own manor because it should've been his little four and five year old brother and sister that had lived, instead. _He_ should be the one with the family to return home to, with the servants bustling around, and smiles with missing teeth. There’s a part of him that resents that effortless confidence she possesses, a kind that he can only _dream_ of having again. There’s a part of him that wants her dead, that wants to do the deed himself. There’s a part of him that wants to clamp a single fist around her slender, perfect throat. There is a part of him that wants to squeeze while never once breaking eye contact, to feel her pulse throb, fade to nothing under his grip, and watch the light leave bewitching green eyes. A part of him that wants to wipe that ever-victorious look off of her face once and for all in exchange for an expression of cold fear. Fernand can taste the bitterness on his tongue and he hates it, hates that he feels this way, hates how bitter he has become. He envies the beautiful woman who has everything. He hates her.

There’s a part of him that wants to kiss her. There’s a part of him that wants to kiss her hard, a _proper_ kiss, better than any other man could or would, so that she would always remember it even if they never crossed paths again after the war ended (he assumed she would go on her own separate way after her service to Berkut. As for himself, he still didn’t know). He wanted her to remember how much _better_ he was than any of the other boys she might kiss. There’s a part of him that wants her to pine after him, to gaze at him and positively _ache_ as he does. There’s a part of him that wants to pin her against the wall, to hear his name savory on her lips as she runs her fingers through his platinum blond hair. There’s another part of him that fantasizes a similar scenario, but with distinctly romantic connotations, not just a whirlwind of passion. On his own bed in his manor, with breathy sighs and naked skin before a fire, the entire night just to the two of them. He wants them to go slow and take their time, where he only takes her once she is sweetly pleading for him, and they make love until the night is gone and the embers have died. He wagers she would look ravishing in little more than expensive furs and scraps of the daintiest of lace, perhaps with a string of pearls around her perfect throat. He desires her.

There’s a part of him that enjoys her companionship, that enjoys the natural kindness and empathy and concern she has directed towards him. He enjoys someone giving him the attention he needs when he’s been neglected of such affection. He enjoys the warmth she brings. He might even enjoy her flirting and teasing far more than he would ever admit, in some odd, paradoxical way, and perhaps his overreactions of offense are just to hear her lovely laugh and that impish, sly tone she saves just for him. He enjoys the ability to sleep easy knowing that she will watch his back during battle, and be there to patch him up with a spell if his wounds need tending. There’s a part of him that enjoys spending time with the five of them together — Lord Berkut, Lady Rinea, Lady Laetitia, and Aviana — a part of him that makes him feel like he belongs to _something_ , to some semblance of a family, making him think that maybe, just maybe, he can pick up the broken pieces of himself and move on because he’s strong, stronger than he knows. His happiness with them is always mixed with a little sadness because he remembers what he left in the Deliverance, just how much Clive, Clair, and Mathilda meant to him. It’s on those days that he considers going home to warm Zofia, but the guilt always returns, like the villains of fairytales. He jolts awake from his nightmares crying out because the attack on his mansion is happening again, and he’s all alone in a cold, pitch black room. He’s all alone in Rigel.

Until she’s suddenly there, a recently lit lamp in hand as she lingers at the threshold like some holy attendant to save him, dressed in her white shift. The candlelight illuminates her features, setting a golden, warm glow to her hair. This is the first time he’s ever seen her _hesitate_ about anything, and he probably would have later noted that it was like she was afraid of crossing some emotional boundary with him in addition to the physical threshold. As if she were entering somewhere deep and intimate and private like his heart, rather than his private quarters. She flies to his side — tome in the other hand — strawberry tresses spilling freely over her shoulders. For some reason, he finds himself dissolving into tears, hysterics as he confesses everything, is compelled to tell her the entire truth in that moment, about his friends, his family, his anger. He tells her how tired he is. He tells her about how much he misses his family and friends. He tells her how he misses Zofia. He tells her how alone he is. He tells her about his guilt. He tells her how he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, what the right thing to do is as a nobleman, as a knight. He doesn’t know why, but her own face is eventually wet too, even though there’s no way she could possibly understand the torment he has gone through. She sets her things aside and throws her arms around him, and doesn’t let go until he finally drifts off to sleep again. When he wakes the next morning, Aviana has left, and the only reason he was certain she had even really come in the night was because the candle had been left on the nightstand, long-since burned out. He thinks that despite her impish nature, she would make quite the angel.

He’s so conflicted as he is on everything, on every front, and it makes him want to scream. His mind is a jumbled up myriad of emotion, like a stained glass window that has been shattered and ground into fine powder, then scattered to the winds, and then expected to be put back together again. Because, in that sea of emotion, that mess of hatred-self-loathing-trust-camaraderie-desire, there’s a part of him that truly, deeply, fearfully _loves_ her, and he’s afraid to lose her just like he lost everyone else he cared about, whether by his own hand or another’s.

And that’s why he couldn’t tell her.

But that’s alright because he didn’t need to. Aviana looked at him and smiled — a genuine quirk of her full lips curving upward, eyes creasing into crescents of shining peridot. An all-knowing gleam lit her eyes like little fires.

She knew.


End file.
